


Craft

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 17:29:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21377839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Thranduil chooses his next crown.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 48





	Craft

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The room is cleared of all entrants, because Thranduil doesn’t want to make the same mistake of seasons past, where he’s chosen crowns based solely on the beauty of the artist. All of his people are free to enter, though only the most talented do so—it’s a great honour to be chosen and a greater shame to be scoffed at. Thranduil walks slowly down the long hall, stopping to examine each and ever crown presented on a padded pedestal.

Occasionally he stops, fingers reaching out to caress the swoops and curves; the material must feel as pleasant as it is to look at. They’re entering into autumn, so most of the circlets before him are made of carefully whittled down and interwoven branches, a few tipped with leaves and thin strings of warm colours. Thranduil chooses one adorned with cranberries and sets it atop his head, then glances at his butler waiting at the end. Galion frowns and tilts his head, giving no other reaction. That won’t do. Thranduil must command attention. His beauty must _inspire._ He sets the crown back onto its pillow and continues down the line.

He knows when he’s found it. A handsome ring of silver branches and red leaves sits before him. It has no clasp in the front, but down-pointed spires that would hook behind his ears. The many different points jut up impressively, almost mimicking the horns of an elk in certain ways. The construction is solid, the design intricate. Thranduil sets it on his head and doesn’t even have to look at Galion—he knows at once that this is what he’ll wear for the coming season. 

He steps back from the row of options and announces, “I have chosen.” Galion bows low in acceptance. When he rises, Thranduil says, “Bring the artist to me.”

“There is no need, my king,” Galion answers. “He will return when he is finished with his tutor.”

Thranduil’s brows draw together. Tutors are for elves not yet at their majority, and surely this magnificent masterpiece was not sculpted by a child. Perhaps reading his confused expression, Galion clarifies, “It was young Legolas, my king.”

Only centuries of experience keep Thranduil from displaying his reaction. He bites the inside of his mouth and turns his head away. There will be some that whisper of favoritism, though the selection was anonymous and Thranduil had no idea that his own son would enter.

He feels a swell of pride that he swiftly pushes down. He murmurs half to himself, “My little leaf has done well.” To Galion, he says, “Be sure to bring him to me when he is finished with his lessons. I will thank him myself.”

Galion bows again, sporting the tiniest of smiles. 

He goes to relay the news, and Thranduil leaves to seek his reflection, so he can examine his autumn form in all its regal glory.


End file.
